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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








SONGS OF UNREST 







SONGS OF UNREST 


1920-1922 


BY 

BERNICE LESBIA KENYON 

•1 


NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 





Copyright, 1923 , by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Printed in the United States of America 


Published February, 1923 


Copyright by The Sun Printing and Publishing Association, 
1922; by The Outlook Company, 1921, 1922; by The Lib¬ 
erator Publishing Company, 1921, 1922; by The Nation, 
Inc., 1921, 1922; by Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1921, 1922; 
by The Smart Set Company, Inc., 1921, 1922; by Contem¬ 
porary Verse, 1921, 1922; by Voices, 1921, 1922; by The 
Christian Science Publishing Society, 1921; by The Inde¬ 
pendent, 1921; by The Lyric West, 1922, 1923; by The 
Granite Monthly, 1921; by Survey Associates, Inc., 1921; by 
Life Publishing Company, 1923; by George H. Doran Com¬ 
pany, 1922; by The Midland, 1921; by The Sonnet, 1919,1920; 
by The Lyric, 1922; by The North American Review Corpora¬ 
tion, 1923. 


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©Cl AGO8416 


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TO 


B. B. K. and W. W. K. 






CONTENTS 


DISCOVERIES 

PAGE 

Security. 3 

Unrest. 4 

The Love-Song. 5 

Homecoming in Storm. 7 

Incoherence . 8 

Palimpsest. 9 

Distraction .io 

To One Who Walks the Highroad .... n 

The Golden Hour.13 

Locust Bloom.14 

Renewal.15 

Impregnable.16 

Autumn. l 7 

The Enduring.18 

Nocturne.19 

IN A GREEK GARDEN .21 

ENCHANTED EARTH 

Edge of the World. 3 1 

The Rain Comes. 3 2 

vii 













PAGE 


Spring Frost.33 

Awakening.35 

City Rain.36 

May Sunday.37 

Driftwood Fire.38 

1 

Summer Light.39 

Sky and Fountain.40 

Harbour Stars.41 

Mountain Pool.42 

White-Throat.43 

The Answering Heights.44 

Evening After Storm.45 

Night Sailing.46 

A Song in September.47 

Two Songs of Autumn.48 

November Night.50 

The City Dweller.51 

PORTRAITS 

Song for a Little Sister.55 

Portrait.56 

Smiling Woman.57 

Curious.58 

The Old Roots of Love.59 

Vain Lady.60 

viii 

























PAGE 

Potentialities.61 

Answer to a Timid Lover.62 

Tall Lover.63 

Unwritten.64 

Defiance to False Gods.65 

I Go Singing.66 

There Is No Quiet.67 

YOUTH— A Sonnet Sequence 

October.71 

Ancestry.72 

Earth-Bound. 73 

Alter Ego. 74 

Premonition. 75 

The Refuge.76 

In Winter. 77 

Prisoned. 7 $ 

The Builder. 79 

Experience.80 

Futility.81 

“Beauty She Had ...” .82 

Death Will Not Frighten Me.83 

Defiance.84 

INTERIM.85 


IX 


























DISCOVERIES 



















SECURITY 


On old interminable strife, 

On deep unrest, we build secure; 

And who shall find for any life 
Foundations yet more sure ? 

For want of basic certainty 
The little structure of these days 
Would go unbuilt. But wiser we: 

Our tower rocks and sways 

And mocks the assaulting elements 
With slender strength and fragile form. 
And we can laugh if its defense 
Comes clattering down in storm. 


3 


UNREST 


Books I would read, but most go unread, 

And music be unheard, and lands unseen; 
Fragments of learning only, one may glean; 

And love itself, though brightly faceted, 

Flashes a narrow fire whose flame has led 
Each in a separate way. And this has been 
And will be for all time. There is no mean 
Nor centre where all things are sung and said. 

Now in the time of youth why must I feel 
Life’s narrowness; and, uncontent with you, 
Struggle to break it, searching in all lands 
For every glimpse of living they reveal ?. . . 
Make me forget, and drift an hour or two, 

While the whole world lies quiet in your hands. 


4 


THE LOVE-SONG 


I am more tall today than ever before; 

So great is my pride, as I sing aloud your song, 

That the city street seems like the deck of a ship 

Breasting far waves of cloud. The world moves 
thus 

Out on its seas of air to the tune of your song, 

Rising and falling under the straight noon sun. 

You would never know your song, I am shouting it 
so, 

But shouting is fine, when the waves of the sea run 
high! 

Loud notes flung to the wind and carried away 

Down through the shining water and shining air! 

Shouting is fine, when a ship moves under your 
feet. 

And all of your being is full of remembered song! 

I am so tall today! I can almost forget 

Your notes were made for another, and not for me; 

And sung in the quiet dark with a voice that trem-, 
bled. . . 

Now from afar, and under the deep noon sky, 

I do not care to know if she understood . . . 


5 


Let there be shouting — shouting into the sun ! 

For to all the world the street is only the street 

Where one may pass who sings that her heart is full; 

And none must know that the street is plunging 
before me, 

Downward and down to the constant rhythm of 
singing,— 

Sucked to the whirlpool dark in the surging of 
music, — 

Rudderless, — lost, — in the song that is not for¬ 
gotten. 


HOMECOMING IN STORM 


The ocean thunders in the caverned sky, 

And gulls fall straight against a crest of foam, 

The black wind roars to bring the great storm by, 
And all my sails are full to bear me home! 

Thus I come in with rain, and salty lips 
Crusted with spray, and eyes that see for miles 
Over the harbour bar, to the huddled ships, 

And docks and roofs, and maple-darkened aisles. 

The rain smells all of maple and of hay, 

And now I put the sea behind my back, 

And cross the streets and fields in the old way, 
With all the clouds above me hanging black, 

And stand here in the rain before your door,— 
Moveless with joy, to know you near once more. 


7 


INCOHERENCE 


We that are swift with words 
Keep silence now . . . 

Teach me the speech of birds, 

Or tell me how 
Leaves talk in unstirred light. 

Or streams make murmuring, 

Or at what greyest height 
The slow rain learns to sing. 

These have one simple way 
Of saying all. . . 

Why on our sudden day 
Must silence fall ? 

Quiet — quiet you stand, 

And give no sound nor sign 
But this — your outstretched hand 
Is trembling more than mine! 


8 


PALIMPSEST 


Is it not strange to think that you alone 
Could clear the page — renew the lustre — find 
Under the obvious, the long unknown 
And secret perfect writings of the mind ? 

Thus in an idle hour you can erase 
All blacker words, set broadly to obscure 
What lies beneath, whose substance has no place 
Among new ways that will not long endure. 

I wonder, when you read the script aright, 
Untwist the intricate and complex theme, 

To make it clear before your inner sight, 

If you will stand inscrutably; and dream, 
(Vaguely, perhaps, the thought unformed, unsaid) 
Now it were better if you had not read ? 


9 


DISTRACTION 


Oh, that you ever wakened me from sleep ! 

I would go back to dreaming, as before, 

When my closed eyes saw not how beauty wore 
Yourself for her new semblance. I would keep 
My own calm thoughts, that lived and brooded deep 
On undiscovered wonders — all the lore 
Of darkest wisdom. But today no more. 

Now you alone can make me laugh or weep. 

Today you are fleet joy, to lead astray 
My thoughts that cannot follow you in flight. 
Tomorrow I shall find you different, 

Demure,—remote, — such is your changing way; 
But always you are beauty, whose clear sight 
Makes me pursue you in my discontent. 


io 


TO ONE WHO WALKS THE HIGHROAD 


Think no thought of her 
Whatsoever, 

Foolish wanderer, 

If you still have hope to find 
Any peace within your mind. 

She is vain and frail — 

(I know her!) 

She will fade and fail; 

As a bloodroot blown apart 
She will scatter from your heart. 

Go — in glades of fern 
Seek cover, 

Lest the sun burn — 

Lest the river drown you deep 
In its shadows full of sleep. 

Where the leaves are cool, 
Dew-crested, 

Near a still pool, 

With the moving, watching things, 
Listen to their whisperings; 


II 


But be silent. Stand 
Deep rooted. 

Clasp with either hand 
Saplings, tall and thin of stem; 
Lean upon the strength of them. 

Let them bear the weight 
Of your longing; 

They are tall and straight . . . 

In their province, green and dim, 
What is any woman’s whim ? 


12 


THE GOLDEN HOUR 


I must be golden for your eyes to find, 

And silent to the wonder of your speech, 

Or laughing the light laughter of the mind 
That flies beyond this spirit’s narrow reach; 

Or you may seek the wistful, childish thing, 
Tired with the shout and clamour of its play, 
Serene at heart, that takes no reckoning 
Of joy grown constant, day on shining day. 

But what there is within me of dark dread 
Shall keep its prison. Barred against despair, 
At length I may know the restless captive dead, 
Walled from the sun and the blue living air. 
And in our perilous day no ghost can rise 
Before our trust, and our averted eyes. 


13 


LOCUST BLOOM 


And now, my dear, the locust trees are in bloom . . . 
Under their streaming fragrances I move or stand 
Rapt as beneath a sweet and terrible doom; 

And where are you that you cannot see this beauty ? 

Three rivers and a mountain-range apart — 

Oh, far—too far . . . The long ethereal way 
Is blue with summer, and void. And in my heart 
You cannot hear at all the thoughts that are woven. 

The orioles cry — the deep sky drinks the sound 
As it drinks and drinks the fragrance of these trees. 
The grass stirs lightly over the shadowed ground; 
And what I desire is all too far beyond me. . . 


14 


RENEWAL 


Hope is renewed in foolish hearts like mine. . . 
The leaves of black ailanthus trees, close-pent 
In some dim alley of a tenement 
Renew themselves, because the sun will shine 
One hour upon them out of all the day. 

I, for the sake of you, will take more care 
What song I sing, perhaps, what gown I wear — 
(You long departed, and so far away!) 

Hope—What is hope? The search that cannot 
end — 

The crack in prison-walls that will not yield — 

The garnered green of some remembered field — 

In famine days the one last coin to spend — 

The wind that makes a deep disquietude . . . 

Why in my sullen heart is hope renewed ? 


IS 


IMPREGNABLE 


At times I grow distrustful of repose. . . 

Have you perhaps allowed yourself to die, 

Shut in behind yourself, the walls too high, 

The last gates shut, and never to unclose ? 

And can you not be more than what you are: 

Calm, and remote ? My thoughts in clamorous 
storm 

Surge like the rains of summer, black and warm, 
And move you not, and spend themselves afar. 

Always you wait; and I am wordless, held 
Beyond the impassable barrier, apart; 

Watching your mood, too long restrained and 
quelled, 

Strong in the dark of doubt—as strong as stone— 
Shaped by your will with its most desperate art, 

To keep you safe, and deathless, and alone. 


16 


AUTUMN 


Now is the time of thinned and reddened leaves, 
Of smoke up-curling from the roadside fire, 

And sun grown golden warm on field and mire 
Of rain-swept country lanes. And now with sheaves 
Piled up at last, and haystacks to the eaves, 

The laborer of summer takes his hire 
And so departs, knowing no more desire 
Save for the rest his quiet soul perceives. 

But you and I have earned no sum of gold 
For all our striving; nor do we seek rest 
And quietness, when all this glory fades. 

Only we hope that as the year grows old 
Our joy change not, nor rising, find its crest, 

When autumn wanes in dark dismantled glades. 


17 


THE ENDURING 


Now in an hour the meadows bright with gold, 
The hills cloud-patterned where far shadows pass, 
The pool translucent green, and cool as glass, 

Are lost eternally. For hours grow old; 

And hot noon wastes to twilight, full of cold; 

And the late river chills to opaque brass 
In a low sun; and mists rise, mass on mass, 

To quench the empowered light one day may hold. 

But ever less forgotten than these things, 

Less transient than their strength, your words that 
lend 

To faint futurity a confidence — 

A power strong beyond all reckonings; 

Time will destroy their glory in the end, 

Yet cannot break their timeless influence. 


18 


NOCTURNE 


Now of this nearness take your deep repose; 

Put the dim world aside . . . 

Peace like the sea, as level and as wide, 

Over your eyelids flows. 

No time can touch you, where the slow profound 
Measures of silence beat 
Eternally, whose music is complete 
Beyond all earthly sound. 

Weighted with darkness bend your sorrowful head; 
The wind upon your brow — 

The firm, cool touch of quiet — lightly now 
Is laid, till night be fled. 

Gone is the hunger — the insatiate thing — 

The slowly ravening flame; 

Vanished the fear that had no certain name, 
Most sure their banishing. 

Soft tides of air move over you to fold 
The ancient darkness near, 

Where silently through cloud, faint stars appear, 
That are so still and old. 


19 


Oh never shall the dream of morning find 
Its way to you, nor break 
Your shadow-marvel of rest, to bid you wake 
And leave your peace behind. 


20 


IN A GREEK GARDEN 





IN A GREEK GARDEN 


We have known it all before, in some far dream, 
These lines of fountain-water, willow trees 
Bending over a myriad tulips shining, 

And the white walls alight in the evening sun, 

And stillness, but for the water falling shattered. 
There was a time beyond full memory 
When standing here, where we never have stood be¬ 
fore, 

We knew it ours, as we know it again today. 

So in return the wonder all comes back 
Familiarly, from the dream to the suddenly real. 

We have intruded on a sacred place 
Not meant for mortal sight. Oh, long ago 
We had forsaken it for fear of the gods; 

But now we would claim it from them back again, 
To behold it today in wonder and delight. 

Even these shadows wove patterns in times be¬ 
fore 

On this pale grass and over swaying tulips; 

And we have seen the evening sunlight slant 
Through willows trailing. 


If to see it again 
May be but the late return of an old dream 
Long since grown dim, oh, then remember well 
How we stood breathless underneath these willows, 
When we had entered through the amazing gates, 
23 


And made our ancient challenge to things unreal 
Through senses when the senses seem to fail: 

“ This thing may vanish; therefore hold it now ; 

Even for this one instant hold it close — 

Fill ears and eyes with it—drink up its air — 

Gather its fragrance — bend before its light — 

Then , let it vanish!” But it does not vanish. 

So we have proved with the old test of sense, 

And found no dream. Oh then let us put off 
Strangeness, and doubts from the doubting age we 
know, 

And let them slip like garments down from us, 

And feel the ageless wonder of this place 
Sweep over us like tides of moving air — 

Sun-filled blue air, that drowns us with its com¬ 
ing. . . 

These are the skies of Greece, and Artemis 
Poised here in marble, with her fair disdain, 

Looks out into the West, whence gods must come 
In the high splendor of their loveliness. 

She waits some great event, who takes no pleasure 
In gardens of the gods, or the slow passing 
Of long uncounted hours. She with her bow, 
Artemis, comes not from her wildwood groves 
Nor pauses here in shadow of marble walls 
But for some strange portent that the gods must 
know. . . 


24 


These are the skies of Greece, and the day-moon 
faint 

Like a high-blown feather shows the depth of them 
Unclouded to the tops of distant trees. . . 

Though we are mortal, in these formal ways 
Let us move stately and slow, as if we too were 
gods. . . 

Oh well we know these ways are not our own! 

Why you are not half so tall as the fountain-water! 
I could lose you behind the drooping ends of the 
willows! 

And you are as nothing in this portico, 

This pillared circular temple, with its rim 
Of whitest marble high above your head, 

That frames a round blue roof that is the sky. 

You are as nothing here, but yet move slowly, 

Being a god for a while. At least your eyes 
May see this place as the heavenly ones must see 
it. . . 

Or break from stately ways and run as a nymph — 
Put off your close black dress, and move in the air! 
You are a stranger from a foreign land, 

And have forgot that it is summertime! 

Do you think the pool that laughs below your feet 
Can mirror you in black ? The marble fish 
And the marble crab upon the sun-rayed floor 
Would laugh at you, breaking out of their stone 
To move in mirth along the floor of their sea ! 

Was ever a nymph in black in summertime ? 

25 


Put off your little shoes and run in the grass; 

And if a god should see you, do not mind it. 
Artemis of the wilds would understand, 

As she watches there, from the ever-deepening shad¬ 
ows. 

Shadows — shadows — shadows. . . The late 
round sun 

Falls to the darkening West, and so is gone, 

And twilight hangs in the warm haze of evening. 
Now the wisteria along the wall 
Looks whiter than blown foam, and tulips brim 
In the half light with colors new and rare, 

And violet shadows fall behind each leaf— 

Dark leaf for green, against the marble wall. 

To have seen this place after so many days 
Is a coming back to an old forsaken dream. . . 

We walk these paths now, and familiarly 
Lean here against the columns, and look out 
Over the valley below, and the pale river 
Curving around the West past misty hills; 

And even the ominous dark comes on as before. 
There was a night in our lost familiar garden 
When we stood watching the moon grow white, and 
knew 

That Artemis must waken from her marble — 

That all the gods must soon be coming together. 
Almost we heard them passing, but did not see them; 
26 


And Artemis stood unchanged. And soon we felt 
The time had not yet come; as standing tonight 
Watching in silence while the dark comes in, 

We know it is not the time. . . But listen well, 
And tell me that you can almost hear them passing 
Beside us on the steps, with robes aflutter 
And light feet pressing soft on the yielding grass. . . 

We have intruded on a mystery 
That soon must fall and fade and be no more; 

But now while the hour lasts, stand quietly here 
And see the moon and the ageless stars of summer 
Caught in the circle of marble over this temple, 

All the blue darkness and height and brilliance of 
heaven. 

Now are the edges of marble whitened with moon¬ 
light; 

Pillars shine out, and shadows fall behind them, 
While the high roof of stars turns slowly to West¬ 
ward. 

Artemis! Artemis there in your marble niche! 
Come alive and see a strange thing brought to pass! 
Come alive and flee away — come alive and escape 
Out of this place unholy ! There is a sign 
Must fill your eyes with dismay: look up and see it — 
Here on this night, at the highest point of heaven, 
Silently flash the long fires of the north; 

Coldly Aurora shines athwart the moon 
With shafts of light that waver and break and fade, 
27 


And rise again. O Artemis, be afraid ! 

What shall avail your long and disdainful waiting 
Here in the north ? Proud Artemis, be afraid ! 

Darker these skies than ever the skies of Greece; 
More strangely cold and high and ominous. 

Now is the new light shaken over the walls 
In purpling colors, and red of the far North, 

Unseen by the ancient gods. Here Artemis 
Must stand all moveless in the unholy place, 

With broken moonlight colored over the walls. 

Oh far is the moon, whose long light out of the 
West 

Slants to this garden, faintly. She must pass, 
Leaving the sky to shafted Aurora fires — 

Silently moving lines of changing light. 

Soon the moon must pass, and Artemis 
Be wrapped in shadow, alone and proud and for¬ 
saken, 

Under cold skies, in this garden of the North. 

Come, let us close our eyes, and pass from the 
dream. . . 

We have intruded on a mystery 

More strange than any we knew in any dreaming. 

Now with the wonder upon us, let us go — 

Let us slip out through the gate in the slanting 
moonlight 

That soon must fall and fade and be no more. 


28 


ENCHANTED EARTH 
















EDGE OF THE WORLD 


There is the hill of grass, 

And beyond it, only the sky; 

Clouds or birds might pass, 

But never you and I. 

Deep grass, and clover, and air 
Full of sun; and a place 
Beyond, — and nothing there 
But the world’s edge, and Space. 

There is no way to go 

Since you and I lack wings 

And won’t turn back. . . Let us know 

What lies at the end of things— 

Come wade through the warmed clover 
To the edge; and before we see 
And fear it, put our fingers over 
And touch Infinity! 


31 


THE RAIN COMES 


Wind and rain and lightest snow 
All across her window go, 

Breathe and tap and touch the pane 
With the gentleness of rain, 

Touch and glide and lightly blow 
With the gentleness of snow. 

All the drops, enchanted, pass 
Slanted on her window-glass. 
Wondrous light must fall the rain 
So to touch her window-pane; 

For she will not stir at all 
As the drops most lightly fall. 

Now the sound of faery horn 
Shrilling in the woods away 
Cannot move her, though it warn 
Through the darkly waning day, 
Though it bid her watch the snow 
Ere to rain it turn and go. 

Ticking in the shadowed eaves, 
Falling dark on fallen leaves, 

Wind and rain and lightest snow 
Far beyond her window go,— 
Storms may pass and lightning flare, 
Still she sits unheeding there. 

32 


SPRING FROST 


You can feel it under your feet, this frost that silvers 
the grass, 

Silvers it more than moonlight, — chills it to bur¬ 
nished wires 

Pointing up at the light, where never a foot could 
pass 

Save with a trail of dark among the soft moon-fires. 

This is the orchard, filled with the milk-white petals 
of bloom, 

Thick like foam of the sea, and moonlight over them 
all; 

Moonlight, a shining flood, — moonlight, clear in the 
gloom, 

On slender branches upraised under its silver fall. 

Numberless flowering branches, still in the icy air — 

Numberless bursting buds, that the frost holds 
chained through the night, 

All of this glory of spring on plum and apple and 
pear, 

Blooming frail in the cold, oh tremulous frail and 
white. 


33 


Now look, and look once more, ere you turn and 
pass on your way; 

Oh look, lest tomorrow you lose, in the blackness of 
field and tree, 

The spell of this whitest hour, before the coming of 
day, 

And the silvered beauty of frost on bloom like foam 
of the sea. 


34 


AWAKENING 


Along the fringes of the upper lake 
Stark maples thicken into grey and rose, 

And in the hollows that the beaver knows 
The water-weeds turn green, and alders break 
Their dust-brown buds to yellow. Rushes shake 
Where the shy otter parts them to disclose 
His once familiar pathway, as he goes 
Across the bank, where dry twigs snap and break. 

In open lands, and fields a-dance with shade, 
Dappled in moving patterns of the sky, 

Dry stubble-stalks are swaying, faintly stirred 
By light uncertain winds; and in the glade 
Across a haze of sun there pulses by 
The steady-winging shadow of a bird. 


35 


CITY RAIN 


The skies are etched with traceries of grey; 

Gusts of white rain blow down between the walls; 
With silver heaviness the torrent falls 
From leads and gutters, shattering into spray 
And hissing on the pavement. Oh, that clean 
Harsh rain like this could break the stone-work in, 
Crumple the city’s towers, and begin 
To wake from hidden earth its meed of green ! 

We are built on rock, and like the rock we rise, 
Sterile, defiant, when the spring rains come; 

So hard of heart our stoniness resounds 
With echoes of the storm, though we are dumb. 

On our dead strength the splendor beats and pounds, 
Dashing its living wonder in our eyes. 


36 


MAY SUNDAY 


Bells would be good if they could keep their place 
Inside of churches, there for those who kneel 
A-praying; where, with delicate altar-lace 
And musty fragrance, bells may lend a grace 
To worship that the dullest man can feel. 

But here outside, where all the hills are green, 

And every apple tree is snowing petals, 

Hiding her shadow till it can’t be seen, 

Bird-songs are better. There’s no room between 
Their trills, for the long sound of clanging metals. 

Eerie along the air the clear notes come, 

Shaken in summons from a far-off tower; 

But I’m more lured by every bee’s light hum; 

And how I wish that all the bells were dumb 
That break the deep enchantment of this hour! 


37 


DRIFTWOOD FIRE 


Remember how you piled the driftwood high 
Upon the sand that night ? The silence swept 
Down with the darkness, and a slow fog crept 
Upon us from the sea, and stood close by, 
Walling us in with quiet; till your spark 
Made all the hidden magic that had slept 
In dead dry timbers wake, so that it leapt 
In the clear flame, and shattered all the dark! 

Then were strange colors of the changing sea 
Set forth in fire, — and suddenly we knew 
In our small vision all the tyranny 
Of storm, — and the far calm of placid blue,— 
And in a breathless moment, we could feel 
The vast sea-creatures move against our keel. 


38 


SUMMER LIGHT 


All through the long day the hawk calls shrill, 

Poised at his far height with broad wings still, 
Seeing what the sun sees — 

Spread of hill and field, 

Tangled light in tall trees, 

Smooth the pool’s shield. 

All down a long way cool willows bend, 

Making woven shadows to the field’s far end, 
Turning where the stream turns 
Through meadows to the south, 

Where the haze of summer burns 
Across the river-mouth. 

Small men are making hay. One shouts a song. 

Forking up the browned grass, trailing and long, 
Far in the field they stand; 

Swallows take their flight 
Dark against the yellow land — 

Deep in summer light. 


39 


SKY AND FOUNTAIN 


This fountain bears its shaft of crystal up 
And shatters it against the hard blue sky; 
Splinters of light fall back; the fragments fly 
And spin and sink into their shallow cup. 

Like a bright lance borne straight with measured 
strength 

Of unseen hands against the armoured air, 

Again it rises, thin and sharp and fair— 

Again is shivered all its lifted length. 

And yet the sky shows never any mark; 

Flawless and smooth-enamelled move the days; 
But every night the pierced and ancient glaze 
Glitters where light leaks through the vaulted dark. 


40 


HARBOUR STARS 


The summer stars are great and low and still 
To men in ships safe-anchored for the night; 

As near they seem as any riding-light 
Run up aloft where air is gathering chill 
And damp with night-fog. Clear they burn, that 
made 

Safe passage in dark waters. Slow they rise, 

Familiarly, and fair to knowing eyes 

That watch them hours on end until they fade. 

Now in the night a deep tranquillity 
Takes all the quiet water and the shore; 

And if the stars were not so large and near, 

And showed no glimmering channel back to sea, 

We might sleep dreamless, who are tuned to hear 
The roadstead wind that calls us out once more. 


4i 


MOUNTAIN POOL 


Poured by a hundred rills. 

The blue cup of the hills 
Is lifted into light, 

Through birches pale of limb 
That lean to its granite rim 

And are mirrored green and white. 

This is the cup of storm; 

No sun can make it warm 
That passes overhead; 

And here in channeled stone, 

Cold and quenched and alone, 

A fallen star lies dead. 

Drink at the deep cup 
That the hills have lifted up 
And it will make you old; 

For you taste the long-drowned sky, 
And the glow of suns gone by, 

In this water, clear and cold. 


42 


WHITE-THROAT 


Brief, brief is the song I sing; 

It cannot profit anything. 

High, high are the notes I call,— 
So high no echo comes at all. 

Far, far where the hills are green 
I fly, and call, and am never seen. 

You — you will never know 
Why I sing, — where I go ! 


43 


THE ANSWERING HEIGHTS 


Shout at your sounding sea, 

Fling it your loud laughter — 

It will never reply 

As my hills reply to me: 

Cry with answering cry, 

And a last cry following after! 

Stand on the sand and call — 

Your tide will go on roaring, 

And breakers tell of a storm 

With green and thundering fall; 

My hills have a voice that is warm 
With the softness of sun down-pouring. 

The curves of the answering heights 
Hold a more distant wonder, 

Made of mirage and cloud 

And wavering northern lights; 

And they will not speak aloud 
With a dark voice of thunder; 

But in the high thin air 
They will answer your calling 
With a soft golden sound; 

And if you laugh, they will share 
Your own loud joy with round 
Repeated notes down-falling. 

44 


EVENING AFTER STORM 


Around these city towers there churns 
And swirls a sea of cloud, 
Wind-driven — torn to lace — to ferns 
Of foam, — and breaking loud 
Along these crags, the lighted tall 
Dark edges of the long sky-wall. 

In our caverns of dim air 
Hidden dark and deep, 

We can never be aware 

Of strong-pulsed winds, that keep 
The cloud-foam flung to upper skies, 
An eddying whiteness to our eyes. 

In these streets of quiet dark, 

We can only know 
That some star with liquid spark, 
Moving very low 
To a place where clouds are thin, 
Passing over, glances in. 


45 


NIGHT SAILING 


The silver web across the sky 
Is hung with trembling stars; 

Moon, the spider, spun it high 
And bright above our spars, 

And then swung down behind the sea 
Till we should sail out quietly. 

Now like a moth we move tonight 
With dark sails wing and wing, 

And take our soft and shadowed flight 
For far adventuring — 

The wind is fair, and tide at ebb — 
How shall we miss the starry web ? 


46 


A SONG IN SEPTEMBER 


The distant hills are gleaming gold, 
Ashine with slopes of goldenrod; 

And far and high above them sounds 
The golden laughter of a god. 

But laughter of the gods is faint, 

And goldenrod grows grey in rain, 
And they were naught to me, could I 
But hear your golden songs again. 


47 


TWO SONGS OF AUTUMN 


I 

Wind has whipped the willows bare, 
Frost has browned the grass; 

All through the autumn air 
Let us cry alas ! 

Loud sing the gaunt reeds 
Till all the shore has heard, 

That hidden in the blackened weeds 
There is no bird; 

There is no flower ashine 
In the stubble corn; 

Bracken lifted thin and fine 
Is shrivelled now, and torn. 

Oh, to leave the bleak hill 
Where the air grieves, 

And in the valley, dark and chill, 

Go bury us in leaves! 


48 


II 


Turn, turn away 
From the hills of gold; 
Soon they are grey 
And wasted and old. 

Close raptured eyes 
From the maples fire; 
Soon it sinks and dies 
In the trodden mire. 

Bend your proud head 
Under the bright wind. . 
The garden all is dead 
And the poplars thinned. 

You are no more 
Than a yellow leaf — 

The wind makes you soar 
Flight is swift and brief. . 

Clear light will fall 
Soon, in the West; 

Vain are winds that call 
To your deep unrest. 


49 


NOVEMBER NIGHT 


Winds in the night pass fitfully, destroying 
Silence before them. Peace in the darkened woods 
Falls at the sound of scattered leaves, or the rustle 
Of long bent grasses — the ghostly fiddle-scraping, 
Dark and disturbed, of crisp and hardened sedge; 
The snap and crackle of twigs in piles of brush, 

As if a creature of shadow trod them under, 

Pressing them down among stiff crinkled leaves. 
Everywhere the winds move, humming in branches, 
Shuddering through the pliant stems of birch, 
Making the darkness alive with stranger creatures. 

As if these were the last winds in the world, 

And other nights held only a frozen stillness, 

Tense I must stand and listen, leaning against 
The chill of the night; almost unbreathing, I wait, 
Straining my ears for the distant rush of sound, 

For the gust of wind, and footsteps running after, 
Down through the darkness over the fallen leaves. 


THE CITY DWELLER 


These things I cannot forget: far snow in the night, 
The shadows of hills, and the leaping beauty of 
flame, 

Wind-scattered leaves, and the patterns of birds in 
flight, 

And the changing thunderous sea that is never the 
same. 

Oh, high are the city walls, and the houses tall, 
And only the sky remains of beautiful things, 

And there never is time to search the sky at all, 
Lest there pass above me the changing pattern of 
wings. 

But youth, clear youth that breathes in my breath 
today. 

Chants in my blood that ancient beauty is young; 

And sees far snow in the lamp-lit snow of my way, 
And shadows of hills where the long wall-shadows 
are flung, 

And flaming fire is lit by the million lights, 

And blown smoke gathers as birds, or as leaves 
wind-free; 

And oh, if your eyes are closed in the clamorous 
nights, 

The motion of men resounds like the thundering 
jsea! 

5i 

















PORTRAITS 



















SONG FOR A LITTLE SISTER 


Joy you have and grace you have, 
As anyone can see 
Who meets you passing in the street 
So tall and pridefully; 

But I shall keep your beauty 
Hidden close to me. 

Let others see your lifted head 
And your questing eyes, 

Hear your voice that makes a song 
From light words or wise; 

But I shall keep your quiet thoughts 
Hidden from surmise. 

If they ever find you out, 

As indeed they may, 

There’ll be nothing left to do 
But smile at them and say 
Secrets of your sort are hid 
Only for a day ! 


55 


PORTRAIT 


. . . Her hair like shredded brass 
Is piled in a cool mass; 

Her face is cut from stone — 

The warmth it will not own 
Awhile unguarded glows 
In her deep eyes* repose. 

Hands whose touch has stilled 
The strong and somber-willed 
Lie curving, jewel-free, 

Lightly upon her knee. 

She smiles, whose thoughts are far. 
I know not where they are. 

What passionate word can stir 
The cold, cold heart of her ? 


SMILING WOMAN 


Her personable countenance 

Incites the mind devoid of laughter; 

She is a smooth and supple lance 
That, bent, retained some bending after. 

Always the sun will flash from it, 

Tracing that length that never broke — 
Her lovely grace — her singing wit 
That cuts a curved and cruel stroke. 


57 


CURIOUS 


Most curious that she should weep 
Who had no tears to waste 
On any matter, light or deep, 

That was not to her taste. 

Her lips were always turned with scorn, 
Her eyes persistently 
Lifted above the crowd. Forlorn — 
That she would never be. 

Yet something touched her in the end; 

The barriers are riven, 

And all the tears she would not spend 
Impetuously given. 


1 


58 


THE OLD ROOTS OF LOVE 


From the old roots of love, 
Hidden in mold away, 

Again there pushes forth 
A tall and budded spray; 

Soon to come to bloom 
In flowers long denied, 

Soon to shine by the road 
With petals opened wide, 

Soon to sway and shine 
For every passing bee . . . 
Quickly break the stalk 
Lest anyone should see! 

Tramp the green thing down 
Before it comes to flower; 
Tread it deep in the grass, 

It shall not have its hour! . . . 

From the old roots of love, 
Hidden in mold away, 

Again there pushes forth 
A tall and budded spray . . . 


59 


VAIN LADY 


Poet, you write me fair who am fair today, 

And make me immortally fair to suit your whim; 
For your word, when the breath dies out, by a secret 
way 

Makes sport of Death, forever eluding him. 

Have pity, and write me wise who am never wise! 

I would wear magnificence like a glittering dress. 

So clothed in the folds of your sweet unperishing 
lies, 

No later one shall discover my littleness. 


60 


POTENTIALITIES 


And if my hand should touch you: well, what then ? 
Could finger-tips disclose what thought has missed, 
Or wake the sleeping sorceries that twist 
Your mouth almost to smiling ? In all men 
I doubt not there is something kept apart, 

Not meant to be disturbed. (As in my breast, 
Darkly, I cherish the small seed of rest.) 

What curious thing is hidden in your heart ? 

I will not ask. I shall not wonder much, 

Save at the peace that broods upon your face, 

As if you dwelt secure in a far land, 

Remote from thoughts of me, and from my touch; 
And this I know is your desired safe place, 

And so I will not reach to you my hand. 


61 


ANSWER TO A TIMID LOVER 


These shall be my signs to you: 

Water running up a hill, — 

Stones singing as birds do, — 

Rain falling hot and shrill, — 

Black flames burning high, — 

Wind-clouds changeless and at rest, — 

Sun that sets in the eastern sky 
And rises in the west! 

You may know by these things 
I am coming and very near; — 

Then hide! hide when the first stone sings, 
Lest you be stricken down with fear. 



TALL LOVER 


If you were only six feet tall, 

How many times Pd make you bend 
To reach whatever I let fall! 

I’d watch your casual hand extend 

With measured grace — or awkwardness — 
A hundred times a day, no less! 

But since you claim two inches more, 

And wear so large a dignity, 

How should I bid you bend it for 

Some trivial thing, dropped carelessly ? 

And not to shame you, I’ll watch out, 

And keep from scattering things about. 

But if sometime you hear me ask 
Your strength of you, you must not mind 
That it’s no Herculean task 
For one so powerful and kind, 

Who, easily as taking breath, 

Could lift me from the jaws of death. 


63 


UNWRITTEN 


Numberless letters that form across the page 
Under my hand, thus, darkly and queer and small, 
You can spell no part of the things I would say at 
all, 

Nor free my thoughts that are trapped like mice in 
a cage. 

You will never shine in colors, nor sing in themes 
Most intricate-clear, nor stand up pointed and high; 
Reaching with trees, or moving with birds that fly, 
Or showing afar and vast with the form of dreams. 

Very strange is this joy that cannot be told; 

Very clear is its beauty and sharp its pain; 

But very bitter are thoughts that clamor in vain — 
That cannot escape, but must wait, and wait, and 
grow old. 

O dreadful letters that write yourselves so fast, 

Yet spell no word of the freedom I struggle for! 
Shall I break the pen, and sit back, and write no 
more, 

But fold my hands till the terrible joy is past ? 


64 


DEFIANCE TO FALSE GODS 


You do not like my altar-smoke. 

Nor find me bent enough in prayer; 

Is it for this that you invoke 
Sorrow to bend me with despair ? 

No gaudy tribute do I pay, 

No hurt my voice to sing your praise; 

Is it for this that you display 

Pain that can quench my burning days ? 

Or is it that I dared to ask 
Why I was made, and to what end 
You gave short days for my long task, 
Who had eternity to lend ? 

So will I question, nor be done 
Till I fall weary, and submit — 

I, who was once oblivion, 

And straightway must return to it! 


65 


I GO SINGING . . . 


I go singing a song under my breath, 

Down through the gloom of grey where the street 
lamps glow. 

The beat of my feet, like the pulse of life in death, 
Is light and low. 

I go singing a song for myself alone, 

Down where the people press and do not hear; 

If word they had heard, it would be in a tongue un¬ 
known 

And strange to the ear. 

I go humming a tune that is dark and brief; 

The words are light and they neither shout nor 
shine; 

For each has a speech new-made to tell of his grief, 
And this is mine. 


66 


THERE IS NO QUIET . . . 


There is no quiet since you left the earth; 

But ever runs a sound among the trees, 

The wind calls, and the far and level plains 
Send back their ceaseless echoes to the sky. 

And even shut into my narrow room, 

Far from the noise of wind and moaning wave, 
And where no voices are, I hear the dark 
Murmuring to the shadow, and the light 
Send little pointed shafts of silver speech 
Along the wall. . . The blood beats in my ears 
And shapes itself to words: “He is not here! ,, 
And calls again: “He is not in this place, 

But he is gone. . . Is gone. . .” 

When you were here 
I used to love the evening silences, 

When words, and even bare unspoken speech, 
Were not, but only perfect quietness. . . 

There is no quiet since you left the earth. 


67 


















YOUTH 


A SONNET SEQUENCE 























OCTOBER 


Come out, Playfellow! Do you hear me sing 
And beat against the door ? Come out! Come out! 
Let us put all the settling leaves to rout, 

And breathe out silver frost at everything; 

Let us match swiftness with the sea-bird’s wing, 
And laugh into the sunlight, laugh and shout 
That day is up, the great gods are about; 

Let our loud calling make the hillsides ring! 

What if we know that winter is supreme, 

That autumn fades, that all this life must die, — 
That in the end our love is only dream, 

And sometime in dead brightness all will lie ? 

We have today, with the whole earth agleam, 

The sun to flaunt in, and the voice to cry! 


71 


ANCESTRY 


This singing blood that pulses in each vein, 
Warm with the life it treasures to the last, 
Holds in its fleeting motion the proud strain 
Of unnamed heroes lost in the dark past; 

A thousand cohorts girded up with steel — 
Armies of beauty, clear as pointed flame — 
These ground their sharpest sorrows under heel, 
And stood them firm, in honour of a name. 

So for the name of these, the valiant heart 
Beats on in darkness or in shrinking fire; 

Strong with the past, it owns itself a part 
Of a lost race that could not fail nor tire. 

So in the strength of these, and their unrest, 

I start anew upon their ancient quest. 


72 


EARTH-BOUND 


Give me no ideal beauty. I would take 
Rather the earthly sort that turns to flame — 
Burns in a passion half the body’s claim, 
Glowing not only for the spirit’s sake. 

Lo, I am bound to earth, and dare not break 
Out of her chains for a mere magic name, 
Even though it be Beauty, and the aim 
Of every hope that yearning life can wake. 

Thus am I made, and if my spirit die, 
Starved for the richness of its full desire, 
There will be left the gorgeousness of sense, 
Treasured not lightly. . . And at last to lie 
Free of all sorrow were good recompense 
For a lost glory and a dying fire. 


73 


ALTER EGO 


Imprisoned in this body I have found 
My enemy, who laughs a merry scorn 
To see me standing with him on this ground 
Scarred by the stars, and by the planets worn. 

“The fine-blown dust you tread beneath your feet 
Has power that you have not/’ he will say. 

“Dust takes no count of moments that are fleet,— 
Dust is the same through many a passing day.” 

My enemy has lived before this time, 

And gained his wisdom from the changing years; 
But oh, he cannot put it into rhyme, 

Nor sing aloud to keep him from his fears; 

And he is dust, and shadows in dim flight, 

Before my song that shakes the walls of night! 


74 


PREMONITION 


The colourless thin voices of the dark 
Grow fainter as the moon begins to rise, 

And like a scimitar the river lies 

Curving among pale trees with silvered bark. 

Here at this height we stand, whose lips contain 
Our vain protesting youth that stirs and cries 
Dumbly within us. Under widened skies 
Star-deep in silence, how should we complain ? 

The hours move slowly toward their shining end, 
Brimmed with broad moonlight and the damp of 
earth. 

We are but misers who are forced to spend 
Our heritage of time, and face long dearth 
Of wordless nights beneath moon-whitened trees, — 
In years to come, more desolate than these. 


75 


THE REFUGE 


Here is the quiet refuge I have made: 

Four even walls to shut the world from sight, 
Ceiled with a high white roof, securely laid, 
Windowed to hold the ever-changing light. 

And when the wind must clamor to get in, 

And storms foam high upon the window-pane, 

I can build up my fire — I can begin . 

Some ancient tale to dull the sound of rain. 

Yet here to stand defenseless in the gloom 
Shaken with every tempest-wind of thought — 
With no safe refuge of an inner room, 

Nor sure defense, of many dreamed and sought — 
Baffled, for some vain pride I lift my head, 

Yet wish to break, or to be old, or dead. 


76 


IN WINTER 


Always before, the clear unbroken snow 
Lay from our doorway to the riverside 
Trackless and plain. Our feet had never tried 
The depth of it. We never sought to go 
Out to the water, where its narrow flow 
Wound off among tall hemlocks, bent to hide 
The upper valley meadows with their wide 
Branches snowed down, and young trees leaning low. 

Strange that we never broke the snow, my friend, 
But sought our fire, and books, and day by day 
Watched at a distance through the window-pane; 
And never knew that there would come an end 
To watching, or that eyes would seek in vain 
For untracked snow along some city way. 


77 


PRISONED 


I THOUGHT you happy, yet when once you turned 
Your eyes upon me, something prisoned there 
Shone for a moment, as if half aware 
That I might know for what your spirit yearned. 

You were as fair as summer hours, I learned, 

And like a butterfly that drifts on air; 

But they who told me never saw the flare 
Of your desire, that clear and sudden burned. 

Oh tell me what becomes of lovely things 
Prisoned behind the beauty they possess ? 

Do they escape at last, and shed their dress 
Of splendid color, and their wondrous wings ? 

Or die of longing, letting their disguise 
Live as a flame for beauty-craving eyes ? 


78 


THE BUILDER 


This loveliness is budded of despair; 

This tower of white strength was made to fall. 
O creeping Dust that folds and covers all 
With cloak of shadow we would scorn to wear, 
Come not too soon along the level air! 

The stones are firm that make the tower-wall, 
And the unyielding steel runs thin and tall 
Into the clouds, and with the sun is fair. 

Dust that was beauty of an ancient art — 
Grey Threatener! My plans bespoke no gleam 
Of steel that has to rust, — no mortared seam 
For finger-strength of yours to pull apart! 

(I think it is more wise for those who dream 
To keep their beauty hidden in the heart.) 


79 


EXPERIENCE 


The empty dark reechoes shout for shout 
To men shut fast in their own littleness: 

Men have no wisdom that can let them out, 

And thoughts are futile in their deep distress; 

Small mortal thoughts, that grow not very bold, 
But ask their questions trembling and alone. . . 
This disembodied passion that I hold 
Cries for its answer, even as their own. 

Soon I shall tire of shouting, and sink down 
To make replies for my own questionings — 

Fill me a level sea in which to drown, 

And build a rapturous heaven for shut wings, 

Forest me mountains measurelessly high, — 

Then will this passion of thought have room to die. 


80 


FUTILITY 


This is the pain that each one strives to bear — 
The ancient goading of futility. 

Yet for a while I hold to hope, and wear 
The marks of pain upon me pridefully; 

For these make very honourable scars 

Gained in a war with stronger things than death; 

So I shall pass erect beneath the stars, 

Strong though unseen, and breathe my heavy 
breath. 

And I shall be like every other man, 

Hiding my darkest secret through the night, 

Alone since this new loneliness began, 

Smiling a little at my losing fight, 

And wondering what work I may complete 
Before the day comes in on my defeat. 


81 


“BEAUTY SHE HAD 


Remember not my eyes when I am dead, 

Nor shining hair, nor slender body’s grace; 

For though I go in gleaming silk and lace 
And bind a strand of gold about my head 
It is not thus that you must think of me, — 

Not as a picture in a shrined place, 

Immortal for the beauty of my face 

That moves you yet, though I have ceased to be. 

Remember rather one who longed to break 
From cold perfection learned one time too well; — 
Whose thoughts alone had found the way to take 
Flight with the wind; — for whom all storms went 
past 

Only in dreams; — till one time it befell 
Death set her free, and gave her life at last. 


82 


DEATH WILL NOT FRIGHTEN ME . . . 


Death will not frighten me, if death can send 
More of earth-living; but I hold the fear 
That never will the changing of the year 
And earth’s wild wonder, moving without end, 
Come close again, nor Beauty so unbend 
From coldness as today, and come so near, 
Touching me all a-tremble; nor the clear 
Days of our love be ours again to spend. 

For earth has pressed upon me from all ways,— 
Mere earth, — of wind and water, wood and lane; 
And now by night I shudder, lest I lose 
The whole in dying, and the stream of days 
Run on unknown, and endless Beauty weave 
Her wonder still, through hidden sun and rain. 


83 


DEFIANCE 


My song shall flow unceasing as the tide, 

And words make their defiance to the sun; 

I am caparisoned in ancient pride, 

Dowered for battles lost or battles won. 

And through all fleeting days, at my right hand 
Waits earth’s mad beauty, timelessly arrayed; 

And on my left pale clouds like pillars stand, 
Bearing their strength to keep me unafraid. 

For I have put my trust in passing things — 

In loveliness that melts before a breath, 

In thoughts washed shining at the mind’s clear 
springs, — 

These are eternal in the face of death; 

And armed with these, their splendor and their 
truth, 

I shall be strong, and keep immortal youth. 


84 


INTERIM 












INTERIM 


I 

Well, we have reached the difficult impasse — 
Turned in a conscious fear from our own selves — 
Our hands have fallen apart, and we have looked 
With reason into the sweet, irrational thing. 

Then sorrowfully, or with amused detachment, 

Or with the cruelty of growing scorn, 

We have destroyed our own security, 

And called our consummation a trivial thing, 

And heaped against it mountains of circumstance, 
And laughed to hear our own queer strident voices 
Saying “Let us reach to grasp it if we can, 

And if we cannot, the thing is not worth tears. 
Since it is proved we cannot have each other, 

Let us be strong in sorrow, and say nothing. ,, 


87 


II 


I see you sitting apart from me, unmoved. 

The sternness of your face is apparent to me. 
Almost as if it were not reality, 

Grotesquely, in my mind I play with a thought — 
That those are the lips whose curves I have come to 
know; 

That those are the eyes whose regard 
Held mine, unwavering — 

Whose look, grown terrible now, and hard, 

Could make my senses sing 

Under the strength of its powerful gentleness 

As under a light caress. . . 

And again, as I look at you, the world slips from me 
Till I know in the end there is nothing left but this: 
The yet unchanging sureness of our love 
Running in many forms, like light over water, 
Eluding the grasp of our will. 


88 


Ill 


You have got into my blood like a subtle poison, 
Eating the veins with a renewed pale flame; 

And yet you cannot weaken me, nor break me. 

See, I am strong! I cannot waste away 
Save after hours so bitter-long and uncounted 
You will lose track of them, who think of them now. 
You will not know my final ebbing-out, 

Nor will it burden you. In remote far times 
Perhaps, if you hear my name, you may remember 
A something vague about me — (a something dis¬ 
turbing 

Of her who gives you today such quietness) — 

And turning at the flash of thought, you will say 
“This woman loved me once, I seem to remember; 
Or maybe the truth of it was that I loved her. 

I am sure, at least, that there was something be¬ 
tween us — 

Something we chose to hide for our own reasons.” 
So you will pass to other thoughts, in time. 


89 


IV 


I wish that thoughts of me could be like water 
Running over blue shale below a meadow, 

Clear and serene and remotely cold, among stones 
Washed bright by its resistless, intricate passing. 
So through the bitter places of your brain, 

The hot and bewildered places, thoughts of me 
Might bring the passionless coldness of brook-water, 
The tranquil peace, unhurt by a blasting sun. 

For you have said no other power will serve 
To free you 

Than the proud look of eyes that do not swerve, 
But see you 

Gloriously, — than the touch of hands that curve 
Over your forehead, over your eyes, defying 
Thoughts like thin barbed arrows, singing and flying 
Around you. Always from the world without 
You feel their sting, but these frail hands of mine 
Can turn them aside, for they will not strike through 
This little flesh and blood that is as stout 
As armoured steel for the defense of you. 


90 


V 


See now these hands that move to the old ways — 
Things without mind, they seek their constant de¬ 
sire. . . 

Likewise my voice, a thing apart, demands 
Final permission to speak again to you — 

To urge a little with more than silences, 

Through lips betraying by an accustomed curve 
Their old delight in what goes not unspoken. 

But have no fear, I shall not break this silence. 
There will be never a breath made audible 
Or shaped and tuned to a thought. 

There will be nothing out of all this stillness 
Save, in myself, the constant and costly toll 
Paid for silence against the strength of words 
That must come at last to naught. . . 


91 


VI 


See, with my will I curb my importunate hands 

That know their way to find you, coolly touching 

The curve of your head with restrained and reverent 
fingers, 

Giving you peace. . . I curb my intemperate 
hands 

That have learned too well the power of forgetful¬ 
ness 

Given you at their touch. They are empty now — 

Powerless — hard — there is no magic in them. 

They are tense and white with restraint. My des¬ 
perate will 

Forces submission — holds their desire inert. . . 


92 


VII 


Today I have no desire to instruct you 
In the exact intensity 

Of the burn and thrill of poison along my veins — 
The thought that will not begone, though turned 
from my brain — 

Nor the profound immensity 
Of blackness, made of the uncounted hoards 
Of small black moments that I add to daily, 
Hourly, and with every conscious thought; 

Little by little building a universe 

Of pain so dark that you cannot penetrate it 

Better than light that floods upon smooth stone. 


93 


VIII 


So, in the end, there is nothing left but this: 

The yet unbroken sureness of our love. . . 

If that were truth, instead of a vain lie, 

I should speak it aloud to you, or make it plain 
At a touch that now you cannot hope to know. . . 
Oh, no, do not mistake me. Love is sure; 

There is no lie in that; — but the world beside — 
What atom of it changes today for us ? 

You know, if love were the only thing remaining, 

I should have no sorrow in my thoughts at all; 

But because no part of the earth is disturbed or 
shaken 

By what to us is become catastrophe, 

I learn the irony that all must learn. 


94 


IX 


We are poor spendthrifts, scattering gold youth 
Moment by moment to the winds of time; 

Reckless because today it buys us trifles — 

Dross of the smiling and approving world — 

Words and laughter, and a sheer veil of pretense 
So threadbare that we tear it in our hands 
Trying to wear it, hoping to hide our faces 
Newly and deeply scarred. . . We are poor spend¬ 
thrifts, 

Buying nothing of worth in our ignorance. 

We shall emerge at length, and curse this day, 

And curse ourselves with intolerable words, 

Because we fought and were not conquered; be¬ 
cause 

Our courage, thin and tried, yet did not break, 

But held against all hope. . . I say we are mad 
To scatter the substance of our golden days. 

And to go undefeated into the dark, 

Crying at pain — wretched, and old, and tired 
With terrible triumph over our hope and dream. 


95 



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